They Sounded of Angels
by Angleterre97
Summary: They met in the cemetery, under a set of wind chimes. They hung suspended from the branch of a great old tree, and when the leaves rustle, they sang.


We met in the cemetery, under a set of wind chimes. They hang suspended from the branch of a great old tree, and when the leaves rustle, they sing. It was those very chimes that lead me to you.

I've always hated graveyards. They're always so eerie, even during the day. I was so horrified when my mother and father had bought a home so close to the gates of one. I had to walk past it to get to school every single day, and some days I would hear the chimes. They were faint as I would walk by the rusted old gate, and I knew they must have been deep within the heart of the cemetery. I often thought of trying to find them, longing to hear them up close. But I've always hated these places, and they were only chimes.

But still...

One day I screwed up my courage. I told myself that I was to old to be afraid, that tombstones couldn't hurt me, and that's all that was there. The quiet was unnerving though, and I soon turned back. There was no wind that day anyways. I tried again the next day, and the day after that until one day there was a breeze, and I could hear them. They were only wind chimes, but this was only a graveyard. I walked beyond the gates.

Cemeteries really are beautiful places. The grass and trees are trimmed perfectly, and there are always flowers. Some are planted, some placed around graves. As I walked I wondered to myself what I had been so afraid of, but for a moment the wind died down, and my fears were remembered. Cemeteries are such dreadfully quiet places. But another gust of wind came through, and the chimes sang again. I could hear them clearer then. I came around the side of a large old tree and that is when I saw you.

I had nearly missed you, nearly tripped over you, as I had gazed up at the chimes. There they were! The area seemed so secluded, so apart from the rest of the graveyard. Like it was a small world meant only for music made by the wind.

You cleared your throat then, and I damn near jumped out of my skin! You laughed at me, not just a chuckle, but as if my lack of grace was the most amusing thing in the wold.

"Are you looking for something, mate?"

You looked across to where I had stumbled from where you sat, leaning against the trunk of the great tree. From your voice I could tell you were British, and from your eyes I could tell you were something special. They were green, a striking green filled with mystery, insight, and mischief.

"Uhm..._Oui_, I mean _non..._I mean..."

I stuttered over my words as much as I had my feet just moments earlier. I hadn't expected to run into someone else.

"I've just found it, actually."

"Oh, you have?"

I nodded to you, glancing up at the chimes that resonated their song. You smiled at me as you understood.

"They're pretty, aren't they?"

"_Oui_, they are..."

You were a little younger than myself, maybe by two or three years. I asked what you were doing sitting around in a cemetery. And you told me it was your 'spot.'

"It's peaceful here," You explained. "I can read, I can write, whatever, and no one bothers me."

I asked where you went to school, and was disappointed that it wasn't where I went. I attended a private school, you a public.

"My name is Francis, by the way. Francis Bonnefoy."

"Arthur Kirkland." You replied, and as crazy as it seems, in that instant I knew it was love.

I began going through the cemetery to get home from school, instead of going around as I had. The place still made me horribly nervous, but I put my nerves aside. I wanted to see you, and that was that. Sometimes you were drawing, sometimes doing homework. Often I would find you writing in a notebook, but you would never let me read any of it. Was it poetry? Prose? I often wondered. It captivated me, my own speculations. I could see it in your eyes, you were probably a marvelous writer.

Your 'spot' became _our_ 'spot.'

Some days you were happy to see me, and then some days, not as much. You would be in a bad mood over something either at school or at home. I would ask if you wanted to talk about it, you would say no but you always ended up talking about it anyways. I learned a lot about you this way. I learned about your brothers and your interests. I loved hearing you talk about yourself. You played guitar and fancied history. You even told me you believed in magic.

"I believe in a certain sort of magic myself." I had told you, and you just grinned at me as we listened to the chimes.

I hated the days it would rain. I would sit by the window with a book and read. Chapter after chapter my mind would begin to wander, and it often wandered to you. You lived in town, but where? You went to a private school, but I could never recall which one.

One day I found you with your guitar as you leaned against the great old tree. It was acoustic one I could tell had seen many years of love and devotion.

"I've had her since I was five." You told me. "I call her Wendy."

And you had a cat named Alice. You talked about her often, and I in turn told you about my own white fur ball, Laforet.

"She swats at my finger when I play," You said as you strummed out a random tune. "It's just the funniest thing."

You were a pretty funny sight as well sometimes. I came upon you one day and a patch of your messy blonde hair had been dyed green! I could hardly believe my eyes.

"You like?" You had asked. I did, really, it was so _you_ after all.

"You...They let you do that at your school?" I had always been at private institutions, the whole thing seemed outrageous. "_Mon dieu_, you're such a rebel!"

You just smiled mischievously back at me. You were so unpredictable sometimes. A prim and proper student one moment, a raging punk the next. Even though hanging out in the cemetery was so peaceful, with you I felt there was never a dull moment.

Days strung into weeks, weeks into months. Before I knew it we had been meeting in the graveyard for nearly a year. Where had the time gone? We'd grown so close yet still you were a mystery...

I remember the first time you kissed me. I had been so surprised. We were just sitting there, the chimes ringing in the background, and you leaned over, locking your lips with mine. You never gave even a _small_ warning!

"Wh-what was that?" I had stuttered out after you pulled away. Could it have been? Were my feelings returned?

"You like me, don't you?" You asked, leaning your head on my shoulder absentmindedly. "Or do you only come around for the wind chimes?"

I was so happy in that moment that I kissed you back. And then again. And again. And over and over again. It was the day I finally told you _je t'aime_.

And you had said 'I love you' right back.

We let each other into our lives after that day. You took me to your home and I met your brothers. I took you to mine and cooked you a five-star meal. My parents were so excited to finally meet my 'Mysterious friend.' They were very impressed by your manners, you were such a gentleman.

We still met in the cemetery, day after day. But then one day...you weren't there...

I had thought that maybe, for the first time, I had gotten there before you, and I was excited. I wanted so much to see the surprised look that would be written on your face when you saw me there, and I would wrap my arms around your waist and laugh happily.

But I waited and I waited...

Something must have kept you. I had thought perhaps school or a family quarrel, or perhaps you were sick. Without you there, the chimes didn't sound nearly as sweet, and it was again, just a creepy graveyard...

I came back the next day, and again there was no you. I began to grow uneasy, and by day three it had grown to worry.

On the third day, after returning home, I turned on the nightly news. A certain article came up, and as I watched, I couldn't stop crying.

You had been stabbed by a classmate as you walked away from your school. The boy was deemed mentally unstable after his arrest, and your parents told a reporter that a week earlier you had said something about coming out of the closet. They told the man that you had fallen in love.

After two days in the ICU you had passed away, that is what the news was reporting.

I felt like I would never stop crying. You had been on your way to meet me. We were in love, and because of that...you had died.

Your parents gave me the notebook you were always writing in. I was right, you were a fantastic writer. You wrote stories and poems and lyrics. I fancied one or two in the back were about me and you, and I tried my hardest not to get tear drops on the ink.

The boy who stabbed you never really faced any consequences, never rotted in prison as I had hoped. Because of him I'll never see your eyes again, or hear your voice as you speak, or sing as you play your guitar. I'll never taste you lips again, or get to whisper sweet nothings into your ear...

I feel like it rains a lot more now, it feels a lot more cold.

Your family buried you in the cemetery we always met in, right next to the grand old tree under the chimes. Their sound isn't as pretty as I recall it being. They sound empty without you by my side.

I still visit you every day after school, Arthur. It's still our spot after all.

You were fifteen, a sophomore. I'll graduate soon, in the spring.

I don't know where my future will take me, but you'll forever be in my heart. I'll come back and visit our spot and you as often as I can, _mon amour._

I miss you so much Arthur. You were my first love and closest friend. I'm certain we'll meet each other again.

Maybe then the chimes will sound like angels again.

/OOO/

**You know, I've always told myself I would never write one of these...**


End file.
